Snitch
by SusieCues
Summary: The rapper raps in the heart of lockdown; prison walls can't muzzle his flow.


A/N: This is a little fic based off of "Without A Country." Lucious Lyon broke my T.V. set.

* * *

 **Snitch** …

Big-headed, foul-tempered, cranky, whiny guard wasn't going to stop Lucious from doing just as he pleased in lockdown. If he wanted to record a new rap, he was going to do it because prison was just another word for jail, which was just another name for a dumb box. Boxes didn't intimidate the megalomaniacal Lucious, the Empire kingpin, emphasis on the word _king_. The stupider McKnight was, the harder Lucious would play him and McKnight was destined to get royally played; he was begging for it.

"This is _my house_ —" the control freak, as authoritative as he loved being, dressed in his despotic black uniform, with matching shades, warned. Every inmate in the yard froze, their eyes locked in on the combative men. McKnight glared at Lucious as if Lyon were a disease-carrying fly and McKnight was a tennis racquet-sized fly swatter with the evilest eyes known to mankind cutting Lucious down. "You make us all look bad. The world would be better off without you," McKnight flaunted.

With a searing sneer, Lucious, feeling as though he owned the world, retorted, "Your house isn't fit for pigs. I won't be here long enough to gag on the stink."

"One more rachet-mouthed crack from you and you're in solitary." Seething, but controlling his anger, McKnight rumbled, "The federal prosecutor's more forgiving than me. That medication you need just might inexplicably turn up if you'd just be a little more cooperative." The curl in McKnight's lip bored Lucious. Who did this warden wannabe think he was?

Later that week, Lucious, in the manner worthy of Julius Caesar, pulled some very flexible strings. Who else had the grit, guts, the overweening clout to succeed where others would have solidly failed. He had fixed it, and as easily as clucking, ' _voila_ ,' recording equipment was smuggled in right under the noses of clueless prison personnel in the dead of night. People who knew him, or knew of him hadn't begun calling Lucious Lyon, the new 'Chicago Czar,' for nothing. Over the years, his reach had broadened far beyond the realm of the music industry. His strategic scheme to release new rap from prison was part of a bigger plot to make Cookie crumble, mess with her mind, force her to realize that she was his female, to control as he saw fit. And he saw fit to break her and his traitorous spawn, Hakeem. If she and he thought they were toppling Empire, his past, present and future, his exclusive dominion, their thinking was whack, on the worst wrong track it had ever been on in their turbulent lives. He was incarcerated, for the time being, not dead. What made them think he didn't know what they were up to? He had eyes and ears everywhere.

Delusion was a powerful narcotic. It made susceptible people make fools of themselves. What he had planned for his two two-faced relatives was cold-blooded; they deserved knowing the true nature of his wrath.

The hip-hop mogul would be out of this hole, thriving. They'd be crying, without a pot to piss in after he got through reducing them to fodder. No one was dropping a dime on Lucious, and brag about it, least of all Cookie, with the boy-blunder, Hakeem, in tow. They had gotten away with nothing, and that was how they would end up—nothing.

Sixty-five minutes flew when rappers were having fun. It would be enough time once Lucious was through doing what he did best, having a ball today, calling out his skanky femme fatale to a gangsta beat.

Guy was working drums and keyboard. Hopped-up and hyped, Mike and Bam-Bam were doing their stylistic things.

"Snitch-snitch, snitch-snitch-snitch," Lyon chanted, crowing, cavorting, gyrating, strong. Fully alive. " **Witch**." He was playing around, hammering next the word that rhymed, the word he felt described Cookie to a tee. His beautiful eyes scintillated like perfectly-cut diamonds as he delivered, setting the storage room ablaze with his fiery charisma. He truly was a legend in his own time. Thrilled, he stepped up ad-mouthing the woman he'd fathered children with. Cookie was every evil, obnoxious tramp he'd ever known. She was Medusa in red-soled Christian Louboutin's skull and crossbones stilettos; she was a straight-up ho, cheating on him, how many times? Lucious quaked, flushed with his own flamboyance. The bile in his soul rose to the surface, commanding the room, as his recording crew whooped and hollered, loving every pulsating minute that packed a punch. Their unapologetic leader's over-the-top performance rendered them spellbound, graphically mesmerized.

"Joint music," Lucious praised, fisting both hands and hoisting them high in triumph. His music-enhancing men at their posts reflexively fist-pumped him, sharing his jubilance. In their enthusiastic opinions the imprisoned artist's latest creation, breaking it straight out of the pen, was destined to electrify the airwaves, rocket to the top of the charts as another incredible Lyon hit to feed the masses' hip-hop addiction.

As the vibes settled and frenzy mellowed, severe pounding on the storage room's door fractured the euphoric mood. Lucious searched the startled faces of his loyal crew and they searched his face, looking on edge. His voice low, he whispered to them, "Who the—"

McKnight, having reported to work earlier than Lucious had expected, and accompanied by two other guards, crashed in as though there were no door to keep them out. Sounding like the conquering hero, sporting prison garb, McKnight broadcasted, his booming voice dazing Lucious, "Party's over, sucker." He grappled the bemused rapper by the arms, spinning him around. "I promised you solitary confinement for your lack of cooperation. That's what you're gonna git." Disrespect oozing from McKnight as he scoffed, he cuffed Lucious before he knew what was going down. "Solitary for all y'all. No contraband on my watch, suckers."

Resistant to being cowed, Lucious badgered, "I can rap just as easily in solitary as I can out of it."

Shaking his head and perpetrating even more disrespect, McKnight promised, "Not with the cuffs kept on and your crater mouth duct taped you ain't." Pulling Lucious along, McKnight barked, "Let's go," as he hauled prisoner Lyon out of the storage room first.

"Get your ashy hands off me, tool," Lucious growled, balling his cuffed fists, inured to the bite and restraint of the fetters.

"I got my hands on you," McKnight tooted, "and what you gonna do 'bout it, bow-wow? What you gonna do about me confiscating your crappy-rap?" His assessment was a sham. Before they had burst in, the guards, along with McKnight, had been enjoying the groove. When it had finished, that had been there cue to shut Lucious' session down.

"You'll see, m'man. You'll see…" In the depths of his voice, as he was led away, Lucious muttered, "People like you and Ford make mistakes. Yeah…you'll see. You've just made the biggest one and it's gonna cost you high. 'Bye, 'bye. You think you'll be holding on to that laptop with my merchandise in it. You won't. It's gonna hit big for me, and you're gonna get what's comin' to you. Like I said, it's gonna cost ya, lots…"


End file.
